They're Back!

By Robert U. Montgomery

They're Back!

Sometimes You Should Be Afraid of the Dark

A child is dragged kicking and screaming into the wilderness. Livestock is brutally butchered. Pets vanish without a trace. Something is terrorizing Parkland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RUM Publishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781733003391

Book preview

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They’re Back!

Sometimes You Should Be Afraid of the Dark

Robert U. Montgomery

RUM Publishing

Published by RUM Publishing, Bonne Terre, MO

Copyright ©2023 Robert U. Montgomery

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the Publisher. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to Permissions Department, RUM Publishing, [e-mail]

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Project Management and Book Design:

DavisCreativePublishingPartners.com

Names: Montgomery, Robert U., author.

Title: They’re back! : sometimes you should be afraid of the dark / Robert U. Montgomery.

Other titles: They are back!

Description: Bonne Terre, MO : RUM Publishing, [2023]

Identifiers: ISBN: 978-1-7330033-8-4 (paperback) | 978-1-7330033-9-1 (ebook) | LCCN: 2023900786

Subjects: LCSH: Human-wolf encounters--Missouri--Fiction. | Wolf attacks--Missouri--Fiction. | Urban animals--Missouri--Fiction. | Christmas--Missouri--Fiction. | Terror--Missouri--Fiction. | Interpersonal relations--Fiction. | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Nature fiction. | Romance fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Action & Adventure / Romance. | FICTION / Thrillers / General. | FICTION / Nature & the Environment.

Classification: LCC: PS3613.O54884 T44 2023 | DDC: 813/.6--dc23

ATTENTION CORPORATIONS, UNIVERSITIES, COLLEGES AND PROFESSIONAL ORGANIZATIONS: Quantity discounts are available on bulk purchases of this book for educational, gift purposes, or as premiums for increasing magazine subscriptions or renewals. Special books or book excerpts can also be created to fit specific needs.

For information, please contact Robert U. Montgomery, RUM Publishing, [e-mail], http://rumpublishing.com.

This book is dedicated to the most

misunderstood and persecuted animal in history

and the ancestor of man’s best friend—the wolf.

Table of Contents

Prologue

PART ONE: DISCOVERY

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

PART TWO: REDEMPTION

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

PART THREE: REVELATION

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

PART FOUR: REUNION

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Epilogue

About the Author

PROLOGUE

Fighting back her fear, a young woman strode nervously up a steep path on Taum Sauk Mountain. Her eyes darted left, right, and over her shoulder, but saw nothing in the black woods or the path behind her. Yet a presence was there. She knew that it was.

Ow! Watch it. Walk on your own feet, said her boyfriend, as she stepped on his heel.

Sorry, she said. I’m getting a little nervous. I feel like something is watching us.

It’s just the night closing in, he said. I imagine we’re all a little on edge. It’s natural. He paused and used his hiking staff to knock off the mud that her boot had deposited on his.

She looked behind her once more, as the wind pulled at a faded green baseball cap that she kept secured with her ponytail. No, it’s not that. I really feel like something is watching us. It gives me the creeps.

Come on. Get in front of me, if it will make you feel any better.

Just then, a cold north wind rattled branches high above them to break the silence of the St. Francois Mountains at sunset. Surrounding summits blocked the sun’s last rays, hastening the night.

The woman moved up and nearly ran to catch up with the first two in their party. The man stood for a moment, stroking a neat brown beard, and looked down the trail that they had just climbed to reach this highest point in Missouri, 1,772 feet above sea level. Then he too hustled to rejoin the group.

As the four reached the paved walk that led to the parking lot, the man thought that he saw shadows begin to move among the thin woods of oaks and pines. They were elusive as smoke wafting among the trees, but real enough to prompt a fear that he refused to voice.

Come on, you guys. I could use a beer! he said too cheerfully as he ran ahead to unlock their vehicle. He dropped the key twice before pushing it in the door.

Within seconds, the red Blazer carrying the hikers roared down the mountain. Six pairs of greenish-gold eyes watched it disappear. Then the shadows converged in the picnic area at the summit, a swirling blur of gray, black, and white.

Yips, growls, chirps, and barks pierced the night on the mountain that now belonged to wolves. The animals ran and romped and played, much as would jubilant children deprived too long of recess.

Finally, a black wolf, the biggest of the pack, paused, and looked up into the bright-white trail of stars known as the Milky Way. To confirm his satisfaction with the sight, he let go with a long, chilling howl that carried for miles in the valleys of these ancient mountains. His pack mates stopped and listened for a moment. Then they joined in a harmonious affirmation that reclaimed their freedom—and the galaxy once known as the Wolf Road.

PART ONE

DISCOVERY

CHAPTER ONE

Grasping the spiked stick firmly in his right hand, the tall man in the cowboy hat and denim jacket made his only stab of the day—at a yellow and white cat that made the mistake of approaching him and mewing a greeting, as the bell on its collar tinkled in the stillness of early morning. Although he had lost an eye just months before, his aim was still true. He impaled it swiftly and cleanly behind the shoulder, puncturing its lungs and pinning it against the hard ground.

The tall man laughed as the cat shrieked and clawed frantically at the air. Then it lay still. A pale, pink bubble pushed out from its lips and popped.

Die, you bastard, he said to the mortally wounded animal. That will teach you.

He was supposed to pick up trash with the spiked stick. This litter patrol was part of the community service that he received instead of jail time. There are a few things in this world that you can’t buy your way out of, his father had said. And you damn sure had better learn which ones they are before it’s too late. One of these days, you’re going to do more than just rape a woman or beat up some cowboy, and I won’t be able to help you.

That supposedly good fortune didn’t lessen his anger, and the cat was but the first of many who would pay for his humiliation. He pulled the spike out of the animal’s now crimson shoulder and bright blood poured from the wound. Taking care not to let the dripping gore stain his clothes, he picked up the animal by the tail, whirled it above his head and, with a satisfying grunt, tossed it into some brush at the edge of the park.

He pointed the stick at the dark clouds over the western mountains and bellowed, I’ll find you, bitch! I swear I will!

Then he wiped blood off the spike with leaves, glanced at his watch, and headed back to his truck. He had visitation rights today with his two-year-old daughter and three-year-old son. Plans included breakfast and later a ride in the country. He didn’t want to be late.

CHAPTER TWO

At precisely 12:37 a.m. on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, Harold Douglas, Southeast Missouri’s top-selling insurance man for the past two years, turned right onto the deserted country road where his worst nightmare was waiting for him.

He had just about decided that the three beers that he consumed at the Takeoff Bar and Dance Club following a Rotary meeting were not worth it. They made him fuzzy headed and, even worse, they flooded into his bladder much too soon. He still was fifteen minutes from home, and the sense of urgency was almost overpowering.

He slowed to cross a one-lane bridge as a pack of hungry, gray clouds tried to gobble up the sky.

Just as Harold started to push the gas pedal again, he heard a scratching sound on the passenger side. For a second, he thought it was wind driving brittle leaves against the car.

Then the sound came on his side.

Harold looked out the window and into the face of a hideous hairy creature with gaping mouth and blood-red tongue. The shock of the sight and the cold of the night combined to overcome his self control.

For an instant, he feared for his life. Then his salesman’s bravado returned.

Damn kids. Halloween is over, he cursed. Harold was so humiliated that he forgot he was driving a car. He looked down at the mess he had made in his blue wool trousers, just as the Volvo’s front right wheel dropped into a ditch.

He tried to regain the gravel road by pulling the steering wheel to the left. Those kids are going to pay if there’s any damage to this car, he grunted as he stomped the accelerator.

But Harold’s reflexes were a split-second too slow. And speeding up was exactly the wrong thing to do. The rear right wheel slipped too, and Harold lost control.

The Volvo teetered on its side doing forty miles per hour for about 200 yards. Then it flipped. Over and over it turned, sending Harold’s world spinning. His eyes seemed to be tearing from their sockets, and a searing pain erupted in his mouth.

Finally, the car landed top down amidst the stubble of a corn field. Harold hung there in his seat harness, his heart pounding and his mouth tasting of copper. He had nearly bitten his tongue off and blood ran over his lip and up his nose.

But the shock of blood couldn’t hide the smell of urine—or gasoline. The tank had been ruptured.

Help me! Somebody help me! he shrieked, clinging to the hope that the juvenile delinquents who had caused this would come to his aid. As he struggled to escape, change fell out of his pocket and rattled on the roof around his head. Some of the blood found its way past his nose and dripped from his bald scalp.

He looked out the broken side window to see if the kids were coming. Instead of finding help on the way, he looked into the crimson eyes of a second horrible face. The upper lip of its brown snout curled over long, sharp teeth. Even upside down and his eyes tearing from pain, Harold could tell the snarling face on the other side of the door was no Halloween mask. It was the real thing. And it looked as if it wanted to tear his throat out.

I’m gonna die, the insurance man whined. I’m gonna die.

The question, as he saw it in a sudden moment of smothering calm, was how. Fire, he quickly decided, was not the way. He managed to unbuckle the seatbelt and fell upside down against the roof. Reaching for the door handle, he had the disturbing thought that his life insurance coverage might not include consumption by a creature or creatures, origin unknown.

But when he opened the door and rolled out, no fanged phantom dived for his jugular. He was all alone.

Harold could see only brown dirt and yellow-gray corn stalks where a lone headlight repelled the night. All else was black. He wiped the gore from his face and mouth with the sleeve of his gray sports coat. Now that he was right-side up, blood ran down his throat. He gagged and coughed violently.

With the smell of gasoline stronger than ever, Harold stumbled and crawled across the corn field, expecting an explosion at any second. Pausing, he looked up, just in time to see shapes melt into the black woods. He saw two clearly enough to tell that they were, indeed, four-legged animals. Two others, their outlines more protected by shadows, might have walked upright.

The Volvo ignited, burned for a few seconds and exploded. Harold squinted into the flames. The warmth was not comforting, despite the chilly air.

Then he heard a voice in the woods where his attackers had gone. It came clearly across the field, riding the cold wind. Damn! it said in disgust. I ripped one of my Reeboks.

Harold was considering how incongruous those words seemed when two mournful howls pierced the night. They seemed straight out of the old werewolf movies that he used to watch at the Liberty after he had been trick-or-treating. Only he was not in the audience this time. He was on the screen, easy prey in an open field, waiting for a hairy Lon Chaney to come back and finish the job.

* * * *

The horses in Elmer Winch’s barn whinnied, startled by nearby snuffling and growling in the frigid, dark hours of pre-dawn.

Frightened by strange smells, as well as sounds, a black and white heifer named Daisy paced nervously in a nearby pen. Vapor steamed from her nostrils into the cold night air as she looked about nervously. Her breathing quickened.

The new moon was long down, aiding concealment, as the hunters of the night bounded across the yard toward the wooden pen. They leaped easily over the low gate. The heifer bawled repeatedly and threw herself against the fence in a futile attempt to escape. Cracking wood and pounding hooves alarmed the horses even more and their cries intensified, growing louder and higher in pitch, until they resembled human screams.

The hunters snarled, backed their ears and lunged to make the kill. In seconds the frightened cow was down, blood running black on the frozen ground. She bellowed and managed to regain her front feet, only to feel cold fangs close on her neck in a vise-like grip and drag her to earth again. She thrashed and kicked feebly until her final pitiful bleat turned into a gurgle and her jugular burst. The last thing her dying eyes saw was a mouthful of ravenous teeth, dripping with red-stained saliva.

Winch’s beagles heard the commotion before he did. Barking and yowling, they charged toward the smell of intruders and blood, as he turned on a light and reached for his shotgun. When the farmer opened his back door, he heard the dying yelps of his two favorite rabbit dogs. He also heard the sickening sound of tearing flesh.

Dark shapes darted back across the yard and into the woods. Barefoot and wearing only pajama bottoms, Winch raised his weapon and fired two shoulder-jarring blasts at where he had last seen movement. Deep, thundering reverberations rolled across the yard and down the valley.

God damn you! he yelled and his angry voice chased the explosive echoes.

CHAPTER THREE

A blustery wind made dead leaves chatter like teeth in the cold autumn night. Under a moonless sky, Richard Usher stepped to the edge of the deck, unzipped his blue jeans and peed into the night, his urine steaming up the icy air.

Normally, his entire attention was devoted to this quietly rebellious act, a practice he enjoyed by virtue of the fact that he lived alone in a rural area, with no neighbors to express outrage that he often heeded nature’s call in the great outdoors.

But suddenly Richard was distracted by several pairs of yellow eyes that looked straight at him. Reflecting light from a window in the house behind him, those eyes belonged to wolves, he was certain, and they were out there in the black woods, just beyond the small backyard.

Wolves! The realization sent a chill of excitement down his spine and abruptly shut off the urine stream.

For as long as he could remember, Richard had hoped that one day he would see a wolf. The dream started with fairy tales when he was three or four years old. Well into his pre-teen years, he used to pretend that the wolf—the big, bad wolf—with cloth cap and slobbery snarl, was about to peer through the window of the front door.

More than thirty years later, Richard still could feel that same thrill by recalling the memory. But never did he expect to see wolves.

Only now, peeing off the deck of his rural home in east-central Missouri, he was certain that was exactly what he was doing.

The spine rattle that he felt, he realized, might be prompted by more than fairy tales. It could be the awakening of a genetic memory of a time when men and wolves shared their kill and wolves frequented the shadows of campfires. Richard tried to finish, but could not.

As he zipped up, he briefly wondered why he was so certain that he was in the presence of wolves. Coyotes roamed these woods, and sometimes dogs passed by.

But coyotes were more likely to hunt and travel alone, and no dogs could ever be so quiet. Wolves, on the other hand, were curious but highly secretive animals. Since he had first noticed the eyes, Richard had not seen one movement or heard the crunch of one paw among the leaves that littered the forest floor. He saw only amber orbs peering out of the dark. Yes, these were wolves.

He was aware that he felt no fear and he savored the moment, not wanting to lose the wolves that now were in woods where historians insisted they hadn’t lived for a century.

Just then, a gust blew him a little off balance, and Richard shifted his weight a half-step backward, causing a board in the deck to creak. Suddenly, the eyes blinked out of existence. No movement that he could detect accompanied their disappearance.

Without a thought, Richard hurried back inside and opened the refrigerator. He took three long rings of venison hard sausage from the freezer, carried them to the deck, and threw them out into a wilderness that suddenly had become much wilder.

* * * *

Richard was jolted awake by a muffled cymbal’s crash.

Huh? he said and tried to sit up. Sheet and blankets conspired to restrain his slender, six-foot frame. Struggling, he finally managed to free himself, only to fall flat on the cold, hard floor. He wore only the Mickey Mouse shorts that Sarah had given him during their last Christmas together.

Pushing brown hair out of hazel eyes, he looked around him and then back at the sinister bed clothes. He had been awakened from a dreamland where he frolicked with the latest assemblage of models for the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. So often his dreams were dark and disturbing. But this one had been nice. A vision of girls in bikinis was far too rare a guilty pleasure to lose because…because…What was it that woke him up?

The cymbal crashed again and Richard recognized the sound for what it really was: Dogs in his garbage can! He pulled on jeans and stormed barefoot for the back door. He was interrupted enroute by a table leg that collided with his left toe. Shit! he said, hopping on one foot as he massaged the bruised pinkie.

He slowed a bit to avoid more ambushes by furniture. But he didn’t notice the open pizza box that he had left on the floor the night before. The ball of his uninjured foot landed squarely on the one remaining piece of pizza, and he felt thick, cold sauce ooze up between his toes. Shit! he yelled again. When he put his full weight on his left foot to pull the cheese from his right, the injured little toe throbbed with painful protest.

Double shit! Richard yelled. Falling to the floor, he wiped the pizza from his foot with the lid of the box. The merciful pause gave him time to once again consider—for probably the one hundredth time—what he was going to do about the dogs. Then he remembered.

The wolves!

Forgetting the pain and the pizza, Richard scrambled up and bolted for the door.

The garbage can was, indeed, turned over, and the lid was off. Bags from Taco Bell and McDonald’s littered the ground. But those weren’t wolves tearing into the garbage, only dogs after all. They were dogs that people like the Clampetts let run free, dogs that often chased deer through his yard. He recognized a brown mix-breed with pointed ears and a black Lab.

Get out of here! he yelled and watched them scurry away.

Now that his excitement was deflated, his attention returned to the damaged toe and messy foot. Staying on his heels, he stepped robot-like for the bathroom. He had to get ready and on the road by eight-thirty.

Richard had a nine a.m. interview at Parkland Middle School, so he needed to give himself a half hour travel time. Getting anywhere from his house, in fact, took thirty minutes.

He didn’t mind the drive in the morning, when he used the time to get his mind awake and organize his thoughts. Going home late at night in his old, sand-colored Bronco, however, was not so pleasurable—except when he saw deer, an owl, or fox kits playing outside their den near the gravel road.

His small, gray house was surrounded by woods, totally obliterating any lights or noises from the nearest neighbor, a mile away.

Richard didn’t know who his neighbors were, but he called them the Clampetts. Bottles and cans littered their yard. Major appliances filled up their porch. And, nearly every time Richard decided to take the scenic route and drive by their house, he saw at least one new denizen added to their auto graveyard.

The Clampetts collected dogs, as well as cars, trucks, refrigerators, and washing machines. The veterans, Richard suspected, wasted little time in introducing the newcomers to his garbage can.

Still, such an annoyance was minor compared to the noise and crime he had lived with in the city, Richard thought as he drove to the middle school. Here in the country, maybe he would heal from the tragedy that nearly had destroyed him.

CHAPTER FOUR

It’s a program to bring city and country kids together, Bonnie Simmons said, straightening papers as she talked to Richard in the empty classroom. Her desk sat directly under a large poster that featured a silhouette of a howling wolf and a quote by Henry Thoreau: In wildness is the preservation of the world.

With a slight double chin, she wasn’t a classic beauty, Richard observed. Yet her big, dark eyes, long black hair, and infectious smile awakened feelings in him that had long been dormant. The attraction was life-affirming. But it made him feel disloyal, even though he knew that Sarah would have expected him to go on with his life and find happiness without her

Bonnie was little more than five feet tall and weighed maybe one hundred pounds. Richard could tell by her energetic gestures and movements that she was a full participant in life, not a passive by-stander. Sarah would approve.

Too many of our kids, especially those who live in cities, have lost touch with nature, with who we are and where we came from and how we fit into the scheme of things, Bonnie said.

I really think Thoreau was right, she continued, looking up at the poster. If we lose the wildness, we lose the world. And we come closer and closer to doing that every day. We have to reverse the trend.

Those words were just the emergency brake that Richard needed to bring the love train to a screeching halt. He couldn’t possibly desire anyone who exhibited such naiveté. His wife had been murdered in a carjacking nearly a year ago, and all of the truisms that he once lived by suddenly became illusions. At age forty, he saw no hope for the world, no matter what any one person did.

Richard glanced up from his notepad, but avoided Bonnie’s eyes. So tell me the specifics, he said.

We bring ten kids down from the city on a weekend once or twice a month and we pair them up with ten kids from our school, she explained. "We sleep under the stars, we cook, we hike. As a science teacher and experienced camper, I can help them get to know nature a little better.

At first, we had a really tough time getting any city kids to come out here. Now we’ve got a waiting list of more than 200.

Despite himself, Richard felt an emotional swell that almost wet his eyes. But he would shed no tears. He hadn’t cried when Sarah died—he had been too angry—and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. Probably, he never would cry again. He looked away in embarrassment

We’ve planned an outing in December for some of the braver kids who want to try winter camping, Bonnie said. You could write a much better story if you came along. Don’t you think?

This time Bonnie was waiting for Richard when he looked up. Their eyes locked. She smiled.

CHAPTER FIVE

Millie Snitzer didn’t know which scared her more—what was lurking in the black night just outside her door or the old shotgun that she had pulled from the back of